


Divine Purpose

by taichara



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 07:10:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11053908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: Sunstreaker, a hapless Decepticon, and what he gets out of the war.





	Divine Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> _prompt:_ "'I bear you no hate. It's the way of things.'"

The splashes of softly glowing rose, the sprays of oily iridescence, across the dull brown-black of the chapel's weathered floorplates brought an all-new intensity to the shine of Sunstreaker's icy eyes. 

It wasn't as if he'd _planned_ this last dispatch to be so aesthetically pleasing, but maybe -- if he existed -- Primus could take it as an offering. If he wanted. 

Sunstreaker was not the sort to worry about gods.

Besides, his quarry was still staring back at him, relays twitching, sparking with commands to pistons that misfired and choked. The rebel was on his back, armour shattered, rosy iridescence pooling around him in spurs like a painting of a calcite flower ... but still _alive_.

But not for long.

The distance was closed in a few swift strides; and death, dark and gold, loomed over the doomed Decepticon. The Decepticon, who -- somehow -- forced out a broken voice.

"... even here ... this ... sanctuary ... Autobot ...?"

Sunstreaker coiled his hands into fists, untensed them into claws of blackly enameled oblivion.

"You sound like you think I care."

One swift surge forward, down, up; now the quarry dangled from his grip, rivulets of life-bearing colour spattering to the floor, leaving tiny winking stars across Sunstreaker's golden plates. 

"I don't."

He pulled back his other arm, cocked like a bow, his hand a lethal wedge.

"I don't care about a myth. Or about Decepticons. Or Autobots. Or _you_."

A single strike -- and vital systems shrilled their last as Sunstreaker tore free the rebel's gleaming core, slicked rosy and bright, and crushed it like a flawed glass bauble. 

And when the slivers of crystal rained down into the slick pools below, they brought a glimmering of their own into the patterns. 

The icy eyes gleamed again.

"It's just work. 

"And I _enjoy_ my work."


End file.
